Memoirs of an Invisible Man
by CopperTodd
Summary: Finding no one else to talk to, Erik decides to write down everything in his small journal. His retelling takes us from his past into the present where he explains his grief over Christine's betrayal.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: Of course I do not own these characters and you know how the rest of the disclaimer goes; they all belong to Gaston Leroux. Once again, this is going to continue to be the stereotypical disclaimer: please do review so I know if I should continue this story. Enjoy!**

June 1889

I find it funny that one man can affect so many people and yet remain so insignificant and unnoticed in their lives. For years I have been in this stone prison, a triumph of my own hand, and still they think of me as merely a ghost. If a letter written in my own pen cannot convince the idiotic management of my theatre that I am in fact human, then I don't know what else could.

Even when I was younger, I felt as a ghost in my own home. Family dinners consisted of my smaller brother and my parents sitting at the dining table in the second story room. My room remained locked by my mother and I would never really see any of them. Sitting on the wood flooring, I would lay my head against the door and listen for the sounds of my brother's voice and the ring of my mother's laugh. I think at the time, I hated my brother with my whole being, but as I've grown older, my anger cannot be directed at the pawn.

I remember the times before my brother was born to my family, my parents showered me with the love that would be dried up only a few years after my initial existence. When I was very young, my mother tended to take me places and have actual conversations with me. Although, she would never let me hug or kiss her, which at my young age, I sought dearly for.

"You must never ask for any of these things again," would be her reply to my child like longing for love. When I asked again, I would be punished. As a result of this, I became very detached from my parents at a very young age. Besides the occasional punishment, which I sought dearly to avoid, my mother treated me well. Yet, she always argued with my father about me, even when I was around as if I could not understand what they were saying. Being abnormally intelligent, it was not difficult to decipher.

"I think we should take him to this doctor... he said that he could fix our son," was usually how the arguments would start. I didn't like how she thought I could be fixed then and I still despise the words now. The two who brought me into this cursed World were very adamant about making me like "other boys". It makes me laugh sometimes, even now, how much money my mother put into unproven surgeries and unfounded guarantees. Back then when I laughed at this though, I thought it was because I WAS like other boys already. My father, a poor man who was trying very hard to make a name out of himself needed every penny that he made.

"We are spending too much money on trying to make that boy normal! Do you expect us to starve just so he can go to surgeries that don't work?!" At that time, I really did not know what was wrong with my face. My parents had kept mirrors away from me and had even taken ones that were once hanging and locked them up in the attic. I still thought that I had a normal face just as they did.

"If we can make him normal and give him the chance of a life, we need to do it!

Now when I do think about the goings on of that time, I find it pathetic that she wanted to help me and yet all that the surgeries ever did for me was to make my deformity look worse. When those bandages came off, I always asked that woman, "Am I better? Do I make you happy?" And after she would see my face, worse than before, she would leave the room crying. I never could please her, no matter how much I wanted to.

Then my dreams and visions of me being a normal boy were shattered after my third surgery. I had been brought home from the doctors after spending nearly a month with my face bandaged up. It was about Seven P.M, I remember, when I walked into my mother's waiting room and saw her silently sobbing into her gloved hands. Running to her, I asked her, "What is wrong, mother? What is wrong?" She told me with an almost queer smile on her face that she was going to have another baby.

I thought it was great to have a kid sister or brother, and I couldn't understand why she was crying, and so I asked her. Never before had I been so afraid of her. Sure, I had gotten my share of punishment from the woman but never like this. She beat me, slapping me on my shoulders, over my head, and across my back as I tried to run. Grabbing me by my cursed shirt, she dragged me out of the room and up the stairs to the attic.

"You...YOU! She's going to turn out hideous like you!" I was obviously confused and yelled to my mother through sobs, "I am normal! I am! I'm a normal boy!" When I look at her actions now, I realize that she was afraid of the baby's birth. She didn't want he -or she- to turn out like I did and at that time in her life, she felt that all she could have were monsters like me.

She tore the bed sheet from over the pane of reflective glass that had remained dormant in the attic for years. It was at that moment that my first shred of sanity slipped away. I was overcome with fear, screaming to my mother that the being in the mirror was not me. My fingers dug into my face with such a force that it caused my skin to rip and blood to flow. Never will I forget the feelings that I felt when I first realized that I was some cruel joke from God.

This was when the depression began. I wanted to kill myself, for even at that tender age I knew the fragile nature of life. Mother would have gladly allowed me to die and so she never intervened when I sought to kill myself. Mother knew of my unstable mind and still did nothing to help. After a period of eight months of attempted suicide, it became obvious that I was too weak minded to take my own life. When I knew that I couldn't kill myself, I stayed locked in attic, sitting amongst the mirrors as my punishment for being born.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: I do not own the Phantom, he belongs to Gaston Leroux. Also, I realize that the date is the same as the one from the last story but the way I figure is that he does not have track of dates and can only figure out the month and year. Afterall his time system is way different than ours. Enjoy!**

June 1889

The birth of a son is meant to be a joyous occasion for everyone involved. My brother was unfortunately born into a very tense household. We all wanted to know what the newborn was going to look like and yet hoped the day would never come. It was certain that the child would look like me and my mother cried nearly everyday. I knew it would kill her to have another child like me since she almost plunged all of us into insanity since my existence.

I stayed locked in the attic during my course of severe depression and as a direct consequence, I never knew that my mother was showing or that she was even near the end of her pregnancy. During this period of my life I tore through books, reading them from sun up to sun down. I read up on everything from simple fiction stories to intense medical information about how diseases overtook and claimed their victims. I even read about readily available herbal remedies that could cure anything. The recipes made sense in regards to the healing power certain grasses had and they work with each other. To this day, I use some of these medicines that I read during those beginning years of my life. Reading had taken my mind away from the unpleasant world that I lived in and made it much easier for me to make it through that time.

I suppose it was surprising that I owned so many books seeing that they were difficult to come by and very expensive. Fortunately, my family had inherited them from a much richer relative. My grandfather who once owned the house that we resided in left his entire fortune to my father and mother. We could have lived very well with little effort for the rest of my parent's lives if my mother had not squandered the money away on my surgeries.

I nearly had finished our library when I was awoken in the middle of the night by a very frightening noise. A woman was screaming at the top of her lungs in my house. Being a foolish child at the time, I feared the worse. I just knew that my mother was getting beaten to death downstairs. Despite how much she had hurt me emotionally and physically, I rushed to her aid, nearly tripping multiple times on my way down the stairs. I cannot believe that in my solitude, I had lost track of time and had not realized that nine months had passed. This was the first time that I had left the attic. My parents had always brought food to me and so I had very little need to leave. Since I did not want to, I never did.

Running towards the sound, all I felt at that time was intense fear. As I neared the shrieking voice, it stopped. My heart leapt into my chest and part of me hoped that my mother had been killed. I was shocked and disappointed that I would let myself think like that and so I shook the thought from my head. Even back then, I held a great anger towards my mother and yet an undying love that a child has for their mother. I hated her but I hated myself more. Those were my first homicidal moments that I could think of me ever having. I was shocked at myself and immediately suppressed the feelings.

I heard the baby's cry and knew that my mother was unfortunately safe and that it had come. Calm yourself, Erik. I awaited the emotion which would tell me how the child had turned out. When I heard my father's tone as he said that it was a boy was all that it took for me to know that he was perfect.

My brother and I had an amazingly normal relationship. I think that since he had known me from the moment he was born, he was not frightened of me. All the other children would run from me but he was the only one who stayed and played with me. Of course I hated him at the same time because he was the one who my parents loved. I still locked myself in the attic nearly all day, but I would come down when I was asked to. Though that never happened very often. My parents would never ask me but my brother would.

The only time that my brother ever had refused to acknowledge me or even speak to me was when I had finally been consumed to every fingertip by insanity. He was married and had a small child.

"Erik, this is hard to say,"

"You don't want me around,"

"Er... it's not that I don't want you around but..."

"You're afraid for your children and you think that I will scar them,"

"No it's not your face...It's"

"Or perhaps that in my madness I will kill them? What a wonderful thought, but far from my own crimes. I do not kill children."

"Erik,"

"No need to sugar coat it, I will go, just know that you hurt me as noone else has been able to tonight." I was not going to hurt those children. It surprised me that my brother would go and suddenly turn against me. Back then and even now, I am certain that his wife's slithering tongue had been whispering mis-truths into his ears. She was afraid of me and she got her way. I know that I am not quite sane, but my brother would have never betrayed my right to visitation like that. His wife is one of many who increase my lust for revenge in this world. When the time comes, death will claim compensation for this injustice.

I can't forgive him either, for giving heed to her words. It hurt me more than I ever thought that my own brother's betrayal ever could. He too will burn in my fiery descent into darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Erik belongs to Gaston Leroux. Thanks for the reviews that I have recieved. Yes it's short, not all journal entries are long.**

July 1889

I've been digressing, my journal was not meant to be some sappy search for pity in myself or others. It is noone's business what I have done or will do. Although recently, these images of my past continue to play out in front of my eyes as a constant reminder of my crimes. I don't understand why they are coming to haunt me now. I had blocked my earlier years from my memory for a purpose. Maybe it's because I have too much time? Yes, I must occupy myself with more important things than writing in this journal.

And yet...

If I do not write these things down, I am not sure how I will continue creating with such a mess of swirling anger and confusion inside my mind. I must take a break from the past.

We received a new dancer today. Put bluntly; she intrigues me. She is purer than the whores of my house and I never see her look on any of the callers with any touch of interest. This makes me sound as if I am interested in her but that could not be further from the truth. I do not have interest in women, they are devilish creatures who sing their siren song, luring a man just to tease him, flaunting their bodies in a sexual dance to trap his heart.

I cannot love because I cannot be loved.


	4. Chapter 4

**Authors Note: I do not own the Phantom. To be frank, I have no Idea how long it will be. I will go through Erik's entire life though. Lets see, and actually this was supposed to be called Memoirs of a Mad Man until I found out that there is a classic novel already in print and it made me cut myself a little.**

July 1889

My parents had never truly loved me for the monster I was, for which I cannot blame them, but every fiber of my being wishes to. My mind through enormous emotional flips and turns, goes from blaming her to not blaming her, to blaming me. I do not think I can control it's assumptions and conclusions anymore. I have begun to question every act of kindness and unkindness from everyone that I ever knew, wondering the origin of their actions.

When I was a child, my family was my world and their unkindness was a great blow to me. I was the only child that I have ever known who's mother not once looked on me with love in her eyes. A mother's love is supposed to be unconditional. She never loved me.

As I became more distant from my family, I stopped eating for days on end, just so that I would not have to associate with them at the dinner table. Finally after a few days, someone would bring me food and shut the door quickly after the delivery. I did not mind because I did not have to see them or talk to them to get food. After a few days, they'd forget to bring food and my fast would begin again. While I remained alone, my anger grew as a boiled about the same misdeeds that my family had done to me.

When I decided that I could no longer remain in the house, I went to open the attic door and realized with surprise and overwhelming hurt, that this entire time, I had been locked in my room against my will. I could not come and go as I thought I had been able to. This pushed me over the edge. I do not remember much of the rampage that hit me. I know that I did not hurt anyone. My attic was destroyed. Walls were broken in and furniture unturned. After the mind blank, I awoke in the wreck of a room where my family now stood.

I was breathing quickly, and bleeding heavily. The latter was probably with regards from the shattered window and glass mirrors. I looked up through my matted brown hair to meet my mother's eyes. She was difficult to see through my red vision attributed to either the blood or to the anger that still clouded my vision. I grabbed onto a piece of glass and squeezed the sharp edges into my skin. My father stepped in front of my mother, keeping her close behind him.

Then suddenly, my anger and hatred were all washed away. All that I saw through my child's eyes now was my mother, father, and little brother. I was frightened, not knowing where my mind had been. I was frightened that I was not able to control myself and I fell to my knees and cried as a child does.

My dad screamed at my brother to leave the room and then his anger was turned back on me. I was beaten as I yelled out in pain from his kicks and hits. When my mother and father left me, I remained on the floor, unblinking. The tears had stopped and hardened.

That night I jumped out the window onto the nearby tree. I never saw that house again. But I remained in contact with my brother. Being four, his memory of the event was non-existent in his later years and for a while, he thought of me as a normal sane person. In fact he hardly knew me from the few years we were siblings in the nest. His view of me was more beautiful than I actually was. He believed me to be an ugly son who my parents loved but noone gave me a chance just because of my face. To him, I was a normal child with an abnormal countenance. Too bad I had to destroy his mislead memories, we could have remained brothers.

I was gone and noone ever came looking for me.

That first night was the hardest. I was caked in blood and did not have much strength from the beating that I had received. I fell asleep, I think. Either that or I fainted. I was then awakened by some children who, as soon as I lifted my face, fled in all directions.

Surprisingly, the children did not affect me. Getting up from the grass, I began to walk. I had no place in particular that I was heading, but I kept going. During this grand adventure of mine, I would sleep in barns or under trees and eat anything that I could find or steal. Then one day, the only abode that was remotely nearby when I could walk no more was that of a church. One of the windows had been left carelessly cracked open by a church member. Pushing open the remainder of the window, I lifted myself into the church. This had to be a sin I knew and that gave me even more reason to break into that church.

Dear me, losing track of time as I do, forgot that the next day was the Sabbath. The priest arrived early as luck would have it and caught me asleep on one of the pews. Since then I have learned to be aware of my surroundings even as I sleep. Nevertheless, ignorant of how to go unnoticed, I was caught.

He was obviously disgusted of my appearance. Yet, he treated me with kindness. Seeing the poor condition of my clothes and my own well being, he took me into his care. I will not say that I liked that white neck but I did appreciate the generosity that he showed to me at that time. Under his care, I received my own comfortably furnished room, three square meals, and a warm bed.

Of course, being the "savior of souls", the priest did all he could to try and convert me, even going as far as to give me a bible. I read the book admittedly. I wished that I could believe in a superior being but the concept did not fill me inside as the priest had said it should. When I read the so called holy book, I felt nothing but anger. The bible had said to love one another as yourself yet, I was not treated just as everyone else by my family nor neighborhood children. Even their parents who should have been more mature threatened me if I should ever come near their children again. At that time, I was not as violent as I am now.

The priest became annoying in insisting that I should get baptized so that I would be saved. I tried to explain to him that I was no mere being and that I was already cursed to Hell from my birth. I would let him drone his sermons into my ears and I would quite simply ignore them. The subject did not interest me and eternal life mattered not.

Obviously, finding the priest's religion and it's practitioners contradictory, I left within a few days in a happily demonic mood.

And that reminds me! Her name is Christine. I don't have interest in her though. It is just nice to put a name to a face. It will be her birthday, I think I will leave her a gift. Yes, that should please her. Erik just wants to make her happy.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera, Gaston Leroux does. Anyways, I am sorry I haven't posted alot sooner. It is extremely difficult to do when you are working 40 hour weeks, have National Guard Drill, and have writer's block. So I know it is a short...-er chapter than usual but I am planning on writing more this weekend. If you guys have any ideas on what should happen next in the immediate future of the Phantom, feel free to give them to me. **

July 1889

Those next few months after I had left the holy man were hard for me. Food was difficult to find and I was always very cold. One would think that a boy with such an abnormal intelligence would know that winter was setting in before he had made the decision to run away. As it grew colder, my limbs grew warmer. I developed a slight immunity to it.

Just because I had such an immunity did not guarantee that I was invincible to the snow that had begun to fall in late October. Humans felt sorry for me and yet they feared me. I saw them through the windows of their own fortune as they gawked at me. Their feet were propped up in front of a roaring fire as their eyes seemed to say, "Poor monster! Stop not here for the winter!"

As much as I had wanted to take them into my nightmare, I pressed on and out from the town. I didn't know where the roads I took at random headed, but I kept my body moving in order to stay warm. There was one point though, when the snow had gotten to up to my shins, that I could not keep my energy up. My body was slowing down as did my heart rate. My body temperature fell into a cold that I had never before experience. I grew colder, no longer being able to move as fast as I had to to keep warm.

Falling to my knees in the snow, I sought warmth and frantically curled up. Slowly, very slowly, I began to grow tired and feel ever so much warmer.

Due to the fact that I had read the medical books in my old home, I knew what was happening to me and how urgent it was to get up, but the warmth felt so good and inviting, I wanted to just remain there. How wonderful it would have been for the world if I had just let myself fall into the never ending slumber! I got up, obviously, and forced myself to continue on and not to fall asleep. I found the nearest shelter possible and made camp for the night.

I believe I slept in a barn that night. When the farmer arrived to attend to the cattle stored in that barn, I had to dig into the hay in order to hide. I would leave after I stole some milk and even a duck or chicken.

The entire winter seemed to go this way. I was not prepared for the for the snow and so nearly perished many times. I killed small animals in order to eat and felt a strange gleeful sensation as I gutted my knife into their stomachs. During this time, my mind finally envisioned my identity. I was like a plague to people, dark and forbidding, a monster hiding in the dark. Why I survived was probably due to the feeling that I was the Dark Lord, empowering my mood and furthering my dark urges. The boy in me who had tried so hard to give my mother a single kiss was now dying, being brutally murdered by a revenge vengeful angel of death.


End file.
